Devotion is a Heavy Cross
by Doctor Madwoman
Summary: Sometimes what is broken cannot be fixed. Then again, sometimes it can. A story detailing the secret nighttime outings of Mr. Lang and Miss O'Brien, and what became of them.
1. Chapter One

_I would like to sing someone to sleep_

_By someone to sit and be._

_I would like to rock you and croon you to sleep_

_And attend you in slumber and out._

_I would like to be the only one in the house_

_Who would know; The night was cold._

Rainer Maria Rilke

Mr. Lang was not well, though the average sheltered soul wouldn't be able to say _why_. He bore no battle scars, sported no bandages, and his limbs were straight and true as a soldier's ought to be; yet he carried himself carefully, as if mindful of a hurt hidden from watchful eyes. He would slip away even while he sat beside you and look at the walls like he could see through them, see the Hun on the other side. He had his body intact, which was more than many of his brothers-in-arms had, but one couldn't say that he was truly _whole_.

No, Mr. Lang was not well at all.

It wasn't easy to tell; one had to know what to look for. Sarah O'Brien, who felt the absence of a brother every hour of every day, knew the look and sound of shell shock. She saw the tremors, she saw the way Lang twitched at sudden sounds, and she saw how quickly he could anger, and it was like having Michael home again, a trembling wreck of the man he once was.

She knew what to look for, but looking and seeing did little good. The bloody doctors didn't know what to do for men like Lang and Michael O'Brien, and there was little more that a lady's maid could do. It hurt to look at him, sometimes, but Sarah O'Brien wasn't one to be content with helplessness, not when there was something she might do. She would find a way to help, somehow.

She owed it to him.

There wasn't much that could be done in the daylight hours, with prying eyes on all sides and not an ounce of understanding to go around, but then he likely wouldn't welcome any real help during the day anyway. Lang had only been in Downton for a month or so, but already Sarah knew he would take her overtures as pity, or worse, flirtation, and a man of his sort would tolerate neither. But at night, when the house was silent and there was nothing to occupy the mind or hands…he couldn't even keep his pride, then.

Nearly every night after that first nightmare Mr. Lang would wake them all with his screaming, and something of a routine had developed where Carson would lumber out of bed, rouse Lang from his night terror, and then leave him to his own devices afterward. It was clear the poor bastard never went back to sleep; he looked like a damned corpse nowadays, with his eyes ringed with dark circles and his skin pale as chalk. No one seemed to pay his condition any mind, all of them being too dense to notice or too wrapped up in themselves to care. It was clear that the others thought of Mr. Lang as yet another duty to be seen to, nothing more, and it made Sarah sick to see it.

And so one night she lay awake and waited, straining her ears for the sound of Lang's shouts from the men's hall. The screaming began shortly after one in the morning, and was soon silenced. No one else in the hall stirred, and slowly Sarah got up from her bed and slipped out of her room. She approached the door separating the women's hall from the domain of the men and carefully knelt down to examine the lock. She pressed her thumb against the cool metal of the door-handle to mark the place, reached into her robe's pocket and slipped out a few spindly slivers of steel that had served her well over the years. By feel she slid the picks into the lock and began to work in the poor light, pausing now and again to glance at Mrs. Hughes' door.

With a final deft twist the lock clicked and the doorknob turned under her hand, and all remained silent in the housekeeper's room. With a smile of professional pride Sarah opened the door and stepped into forbidden territory, closing the way behind her before padding down the corridor. Four doors down, on the left, a sliver of light spilled across the floorboards; Mr. Lang was awake now, and she could hear the creak of restless feet pacing the length of the room. Sarah raised her hand to knock and hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek as she reconsidered.

What, exactly, would Mr. Lang think of her showing up uninvited to his room? It was strange, almost _ghoulish_, to come knocking in the wee hours of the morning. He'd surely think she was mad, or trying to take advantage, or something equally terrible and degrading, and the risk of being caught in here with a thief's tools in her pocket were uncomfortably high…

Sarah's thoughts were interrupted by a soft sound, stifled so that one could barley catch it. It may have been a sigh, or a sob, but she made up her mind and opened the door to Lang's room. She found him leaning against the far wall, haggard and drenched in sweat, and he staggered upright at her approach. He looked at her as though not sure if she were friend or enemy, his eyes sunken and wary. She stayed very still, her hands where he could see them, and waited.

"What are you doing up at this hour?" he demanded, shifting his weight from foot to foot in agitation.

"I might ask the same." Sarah returned, and for the first time she realized he was shaking. Her hands began to reach out- to touch, to soothe- but she got hold of herself before he could take note. Lang, however, didn't seem to be paying any mind to her; he was back at pacing, moving in the space between his bed and the closet like an animal in a way that reminded her of fox locked up in a cage, his head carried low and his hands clenching.

"How long d'you manage to sleep most nights, Mr. Lang? After the dreams?"

Lang glanced at her, and _God, _had Mikey ever looked half so exhausted as this? It made Sarah wonder how long Mr. Lang had been at the front, and what had been done to him there. Or what he himself had done.

"An hour or two, sometimes a bit more."Lang mumbled, running a shaking hand over his face. A moment later he tried at a smile, his mouth struggling with the near-forgotten expression.

"You shouldn't be here, Miss O'Brien. If you're found, they'll make assumptions. I won't have you losing your job over me."

"You can't just be left on your own like this." Sarah stated firmly, and her tone brooked no argument. "A handful of restful hours of sleep isn't enough t'keep a person runnin', not in a house like this. You'll compromise your 'ealth, if you carry on like this."

Mr. Lang gave a great shuddering sigh and shuffled over to his bed, moving like he was a century old. He sat down and put his head in his hands, his shoulders sloping down in defeat.

"I'd give whatever's left of my soul for just one night of decent sleep, Miss O'Brien, but my mind works against me. Every time I close my eyes…"

"You're back there." She finished softly.

"Yes."

"An' nothing helps."

"Nothing save work, and there's nothing to keep me busy so late." He said wearily. Sarah was caught in the wake of a memory, then; she was eighteen years old and sitting out behind her childhood home, the stars wheeling overhead and Mikey pressed close on one side while Joe dozed on the other and Kevan and Aidan wrestled in the grass, with Brendan hovering disapprovingly behind them all.

_There's Orion- a 'unter, he is, with a great bow. D'you see 'im, Mikey?_

"Come along, Mr. Lang."

He stared up at her, still caught in that distant country between waking and dreaming, but put up no resistance when she closed her hands around his tense bicep and hauled him to his feet. He staggered, leaned against her for a moment, and she could feel the feverish heat of him even through her nightgown.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Now hush, else Hughes will be leapin' down our throats faster than thought."

She led them from his room and gently towed the door shut behind them, all too aware of his tremors, his uncertain steps. Both paused a moment, not daring to draw breath as they listened for the sounds of disturbance from the other rooms. Without question being caught together in their nightclothes would get them sacked, no matter how artfully Sarah might lie, or how innocent the truth was. Yet no one stirred behind the featureless bedroom doors, and Sarah cast Lang a brief smile before leading him out of the men's hall on silent feet. Over a decade of service had taught her how to travel like a ghost through these halls, unnoticed to the point of invisibility, and for once she was glad of it.

Sarah and Lang reached the stairs, and they moved down through the dark with care, her hand on his sleeve to guide him over creaking boards. He followed her with a gosling's trust, neither questioning nor protesting when they reached the bottom and she towed him towards one of the servants' doors. Out into the kitchen yard, through another door, and at last they found themselves out beyond Downton, the grass wet underfoot and darkness pressing in all around. Sarah sighed, relaxing slightly now that they were out of the house, and glanced over at Lang; she could make out his silhouette, shoulders back and head tilted up towards the sky.

The stars burned so brightly overhead, and she thought again of those nights, so long ago, with the night stretching infinitely above her and her brothers, all of them whole and innocent still.

Sarah tasted copper in her mouth, realized she was biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Shaking her head, she tugged at Lang's sleeve and urged him to walk beside her.

"Come, Mr. Lang. Let's walk. How much d'you know about stars an' the like?"

As it turned out, quite a bit. She still knew more.

Their nighttime walks became yet another routine for them; Sarah would wait until Carson had gotten Lang up and everything had settled again, then pick the lock on the door parting the male and female quarters and steal into his room to escort him outside. Out in the moonlit world they did as they liked, smoking and walking over the lawns like they owned them, speaking of Orion or some story they'd been told as children. Most nights, Lang would eventually grow calm and tired and ready to sleep again.

Most nights, but not always.

Sometimes the stars were not enough, and the shaking would persist long after they'd left the servants' quarters behind. He would stare at Sarah then, slipping off into his own mental landscape without warning and losing himself there. She was at a loss until one night, almost a month into their bizarre arrangement, when she saw that he was taking one his bad turns again; an odd idea came to her, and she forced down her misgivings long enough to take a drag of her cigarette and say,

"D'you dance, Mr. Lang?"

He started, blinked slowly at her, as if unsure that he heard her correctly.

"Do I…what?"

"Dance. Any skill at it?"

"None worth speaking of," he admitted. "There were a few country dances when I was younger, but nothing worthy of a ballroom."

Sarah nodded as if in thought, sucked in another lungful of smoke. She glanced up at Lang.

"I could teach you." She said, fighting to keep her voice steady. She had Lang's full attention now, confused though it was, and to her horror she felt herself blushing slightly.

"Don't mistake me, Mr. Lang; I've no improper intentions toward you."

"I think we've both left improper behind a few weeks ago, don't you?" Lang said, and he gave her an honest-to-god smile then, one she couldn't help but return. He moved closer, and Sarah did her best to quell the way her stomach clenched inside her.

"I take it this is a yes?"

"Yes. What are we learning?" he inquired, meeting her gaze unwaveringly. He was staying, thank God, though she knew he was still shaking some. Taking a final drag, Sarah threw her fag on the grass, ground it out under her heel and gently grasped Lang's wrist.

"What do you say to a waltz? Nice and simple."

He nodded, shuffled closer still and grasped her hand in his; Sarah swallowed hard, tried to shake away the sudden sensitivity of her skin. She shivered when Lang rested a heavy hand on her hip and spoke sharply,

"Hand a bit higher, Mr. Lang. We don't know each other _that _well."

"Apologies, Miss O'Brien."

She waited for him to settle his hand, warm and heavy between her shoulder blades. He seemed afraid of her somehow, or maybe afraid _for_ her; he was at least two heads taller than her, and quite a bit broader besides, and bloody _hell _but his feet were big.

"Steady, I'm not made of porcelain. Now, you follow me, understood? Move your feet like _this_…"

Sarah started them off, her hand on his shoulder steering him gently into the proper steps, quiet as the grave as she tried to recall what Lady Grantham had taught her all those years ago. Lang wasn't bad for a novice, she'd give him that, though he seemed so worried about stepping on her feet that was tripping himself up. She only shook her head and gently corrected him, careful to maintain the space between them. After a few minutes, Lang relaxed a little and asked,

"Did you ever dance with your brother?"

Sarah nearly stumbled at that, but held herself steady and darted a quick glance up at him. He was smiling a bit, and she realized he was trying to tease her. Somehow it was encouraging instead of irritating.

"I'd have never lived it down if I had." She snorted, and he _chuckled _at that, the sound rattling dryly in his mouth as though it had not been used in a long while. Sarah couldn't explain her sudden surge of pride –in herself for causing the laugh, in him for finding it again- but she wouldn't question it for now.

"Pick your feet up, Mr. Lang- you're a gentleman, not a corpse."

"Right."

Mr. Lang progressed fairly quickly, moving with more ease and confidence as the minutes passed them by. He lost himself in the steps, the silent music they moved by, leaving everything else behind. The night wind cooled him, and dimly Sarah noticed that the shaking had stopped. It couldn't last, however; soon they both stumbled from tiredness, and the wind began to pick up.

"Time to 'ead in, I think. We'll likely freeze otherwise." Sarah observed, drawing her robe tightly around herself. Lang nodded and yawned hugely, like a child might. Without much more ado they both turned and headed back towards the towering Abbey in a companionable silence, too tired to think much on their situation. Lang held the door to the kitchen yard open for Sarah, and when she passed by him with a mumble of thanks he caught her hand.

"Thank you." He whispered, squeezing her fingers gently and smiling. Sarah stared at their linked hands for a moment, her body warming curiously. After a few perilous seconds she shook her head and smiled back.

"There's nothin' to thank me for, Mr. Lang. Let's 'ead in before we drop."

She led the way back into the house and up the winding stairs to the attics with Mr. Lang close behind. He held her hand the whole way, and she allowed it.


	2. Chapter Two

_You Marshals, gilt and red,_

_You Ministers and Princes, and Great Men,_

_Why can't you keep your mouthings for the dead?_

_Go round to the simple cemeteries; and then_

_Talk of our noble sacrifices and losses_

_To the wooden crosses._

Excerpt from _Great Men_

He awakened from an uneasy sleep in the purple, formless hour just before dawn and lay quietly beneath the sheets, staring at the ceiling and taking stock.

His surroundings, clean and dry and far from bombardment.

His arms and legs, whole.

His senses, clear and trustworthy for the moment.

His heart, beating. Yes, beating still.

Everything was quiet.

Carefully Andrew Lang slipped out from under his blankets and lowered himself onto the worn floorboards, where he began the sets of sit-ups and pushups that had occupied his mornings for the last few months.

They'd told him there was no need, back at the hospital. You're out, the nurses said, you needn't bother. Soft upbringing and a sheltered training period still hadn't taught them that sometimes a routine, any routine, was all that kept one from the bottle or the twine.

Twenty of each, executed in total silence and with a blank countenance. Twenty was enough to quiet the restlessness of his limbs and ease his thoughts enough for him to rise and make ready for the day. He moved quietly about his room as he washed his face and neatened his hair, every action practiced and sure. It was only when he flicked open his straight razor that the tremors began and he faltered, eyes fixed on the flash of steel.

He remembered Frank Dodges, and carefully laid down the blade. Andrew sat on the edge of his narrow cot, his back to the corner, breathing steadily until the shaking of his hands subsided and the memory dimmed again. Eventually, he raised himself up and finished the task of shaving, careful not to look too closely at his wan features.

Smooth-faced and smelling of cologne Andrew dressed himself, paying near obsessive attention the alignment of his tie, the cuffs of his shirt and jacket. There was still so much time before his Lordship rang; it was just now five, and only the kitchen girl would be astir.

For a fleeting second Andrew thought of Miss O'Brien, wondering if she too was awake now after a restless night, if she would welcome some company before the others roused themselves.

_Idiot_, he chided himself. _Idiot, she's likely sleeping, trying to make up for the night hours she wasted on you._

Besides, he had no means of opening the door to the women's hall and if he did, it was likely that he'd get himself caught somehow. Really, it was amazing how Miss O'Brien managed; Andrew supposed that no matter how many patrols he had been on, how quiet he was by nature, he simply could not compete with the lady's maid's much smaller feet.

Restless, Andrew opened the closet and rummaged around in his kit bag for something to read, pulling out a collection of essays so ragged and worn that the title could no longer be read on the cracked leather. He'd loved the language contained in these pages, not very long ago. Andrew thumbed through the pages, finding places where he had underlined passages, or put a mark near a certain sentence. Here and there his handwriting could be seen in the margins, the pencil smudged slightly.

Andrew read the comments of his former self and revisited paragraphs that had caught him, seeking something familiar and recognizing nothing.

"Six sharp, Mr. Lang!"

Andrew's body jerked at the rap on the door, heart knocking against his ribs as his blood thrummed through his ready limbs. It lasted just a moment, but he was left shaken and cold. Reluctantly, he left the safety of his room and went down to breakfast, brushes and shoehorn tucked under his arm.

He ate quietly, eyes trained on the table. He dared not look at Miss O'Brien for fear of giving them away somehow; a lingering glance, a too familiar tone would be all it took to set Mrs. Hughes on their trail.

He was too ashamed to look at Mrs. Patmore, and it was a relief when the wall of bells began their wretched clanging.

Mechanically, Andrew climbed the stairs and proceeded to Lord Grantham's dressing room where he laid out his Lordship's uniform and smoothed out the creases. He ran his eyes over the seams and buttons, finding them pristine, and made certain the bars were in order on the left breast.

Lord Grantham entered the room and nodded a greeting to Andrew. He spoke not a word throughout the dressing, too preoccupied by whatever it was that bothered posh folk to pay any mind to his valet.

That suited Andrew well enough, and it was with a sense of relief that he accepted his Lordship's dismissal and headed back to the servant's staircase, where he spotted the scullery maid scurrying abut in a frock that was neither sooty nor smudged with flour. It was a sign of Sunday, and Andrew had to bite back a curse. Though they did not wear gleaming medals and scarlet coats, men of God could surely be as pompous and careless as any officer, and thrice as effective as any patriotic poster imploring for enlistment. Downton Village had been rather dubiously blessed with such a vicar, and it was fast becoming a trial to suffer through the Sunday service.

_Might as well make something of it_, he mused, and immediately he went into the servant's hall to find Miss O'Brien.

"Might I walk with you down to the village?" Andrew asked, keeping his voice low as the other servants bustled by them. Miss O'Brien raised her head and gave him a searching look, her eyes moving over his tired features.

"It's a free country, supposedly."

And so he walked beside her down to the village, the pair of them a little separated from the others. They didn't talk; by some unspoken agreement true conversation was reserved for their nightly walks. He spent his time staring ahead, letting the animal part of his mind lead him so that he would not have to think overmuch. Occasionally he'd chance a sidelong look at his companion, noting the straightness of her back and the sureness of her stride. He thought that Miss O'Brien was a manly sort of woman, in a way. Though she was quite feminine in form she moved with determination, chin up and eyes cold. She spoke with sharp words and little sympathy, ready to lay into most of the downstairs staff, and Ethel in particular, with Andrew seeming to be her one exception. He didn't think he'd ever met a woman so forthright and so lacking in the usual female virtues of gentleness and flattery.

Andrew quite liked her.

They entered Downton Village, the church steeple rising above them out of the early morning mist as they approached. Andrew sighed and readied himself, trying to banish the unease he felt at being around so many others.

They filed into the church, passing over stones worn smooth by years and years of faithful feet, and without much thought Andrew slid into a pew beside Miss O'Brien, his knee knocking slightly against hers. He lifted his head to look out over row after row of people; it was almost a comfort, to see the lines. That creeping, half-wild part of his brain had been taught to know lines, where no questions were asked.

The vicar passed up the aisle at a slow, nearly funerary pace, his hoary head held high as he moved among his flock. A hush fell over those gathered as he ascended to his place and shuffled his notes; the vicar straightened and stared down at all of them, prolonging the moment with an air of satisfaction. Andrew suspected that the old codger liked feeling as though he held total power over his audience, who could neither speak nor leave without his word.

"We are in the midst of the second year of the world's Great War, and in these days of darkness and dread it is difficult to maintain the flame of faith. As news of English casualties and German cruelties reach the home front to make heavy the hearts of mothers and wives, and as reports of lewd and immoral behavior at the Front come to light, it may be easy for some to throw up their hands in despair and declare that God has abandoned us."

The vicar paused for affect, surely aware that he had captured the attentions of even the drowsiest church-goers. Already sensing the direction the sermon was taking, Andrew wondered if anyone else thought it funny, that this wizened little toad of a man had got it in his head to play the blustering general and deliver a patriotic speech from his pulpit.

"Now more than ever it is _vital _that we do not allow our hearts to fail us, for if the courage of her people falters then surely Britain herself will fall. We must raise up our flagging spirits and rejoice, for is it not written that our foes, who have drawn their swords, bent their bows and cast down the helpless and just, is it not written that the Lord shall _laugh_ at them and drive their own blades into their hearts? God favors the soldiers of England and her allies, for they are righteous! His eyes are upon us and His ears are open to our cries!"

The old man was starting work himself into a lather, his beady eyes now aflame with a passion that had not been seen in many a year, and his enthusiasm was wakening an energetic murmur amongst the crowd. Andrew kept himself absolutely still, his every muscle clenched tight with the effort of not listening or seeing. Inside there was nothing save for the soothing numbness.

"Though the enemy is savage and the elements harsh the warriors of England need not fear, for the Lord is their light and salvation. We have taken arms against a terrible enemy and God grants His favor to the lads in khaki and blesses them as they march forth from their motherland to do their sacred duty. Can we citizens, good and faithful Christians all, do anything less in the face of such courage? Can we abandon our own duties in this crisis?"

There were negative cries from the congregation, their voices bright within the stifling confines of God's house. Andrew found himself marveling at them, thinking that they could have not known even a single soldier, let alone lost one, if they allowed themselves to be swayed so easily by pretty words. Silent as stone, Andrew Lang kept his eyes fixed on the madman standing over them and tried to make himself deaf to what was going on around him.

"Let us stand as one with our fighting men! Let us raise our voices in praise and encouragement of our young warriors who go to do God's work with nary a doubt or complaint! Let us pray for them today, every soul beneath this hallowed roof, and beg the Lord to lend them His strength and guide them to victory against the Huns!"

He wasn't sure when it happened. In one moment Andrew was seated beside Miss O'Brien on the cramped pew, yet now he was on his feet and there was rage burning wild in his heart, pounding in his veins. He thought of nothing save of screaming at them all, damning them for their stupidity, but found that the words refused to come.

Andrew shut his mouth against the bile rising in his throat and turned to stumble from the pew, deaf to the scandalized outcries of the others and Carson's reprimand. He left the church and stood for a moment in the street, winded and disoriented as his blood pounded in his ears. He stepped forward on trembling legs, needing to walk, to _escape_. He forced himself to move, taking long strides that ate up the ground. Head down and eyes forward like a good soldier he began to make his way back to Downton Abbey.

_Keep breathing._

"Mr. Lang!"

He focused only on the expansion and contraction of his lungs, drawing in each breath and holding it.

"Mr. Lang, turn around!"

So long as he kept moving, so long as he had a path under his feet he would be fine, he would be

"For Christ's sake, _slow down_!"

At last Andrew registered that someone had been calling after him for a while now. Preparing himself, Andrew turned to face is pursuer and was shocked to see Miss O'Brien come towards him at a near run, her skirts gathered in her hands and her hair unraveling from its rigid bun.

"_Christ_, but you walk fast. I ought to beat you bloody for makin' me gallop after you like some damned racehorse." She snapped, coming to a stop beside him and making a futile effort to restore her hair to its previous state. Rather stunned, Andrew could only stare at her for some time before he recalled himself.

"There was no need for you to leave the service, Miss O'Brien."

"For the love of God, you've seen me in me nightclothes; call me Sarah." She muttered, clutching at her side as she tried to regain her breath. Andrew slowly shook his head.

"You ought to go back; no use in having Carson after you too."

"Bollocks. You're in no state to be left on your own; look at you."

As if to illustrate her point Miss O'Brien laid her hand on his shoulder, and for the first time Andrew realized that the tremors had spread throughout the entirety of his body. Shame flooded through him in a hot wave, forcing him to duck his head. From the corner of his eye Andrew saw Miss O'Brien's features soften- sad, but not pitying.

"Let's find a quiet place to sit, eh? Give us a moment to settle ourselves before we get back and the schoolmaster twists our ears." She said with a wry smile, and Andrew forced a smile in return. They began walking again, Andrew checking his stride to keep pace with Miss- with Sarah. Somehow they had fallen back into their nighttime routine, and he leaned towards her when she took his arm and guided him off the road towards a copse of trees. They settled under a birch, and Sarah dipped her hand into her skirt pocket and withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

"Steady you up." She said, and shook the last fag into his hand. Andrew took the cigarette and tried to hold his fingers steady as she struck a match and held the flame to its tip. He breathed deep, choked a little on the smoke, but found himself the slightest bit soothed. It was a familiar habit, smoking.

Satisfied that he wasn't going to inhale the fag by accident, Sarah eased herself back against the tree's peeling bark, watching him and keeping her thoughts to herself for the time being. Andrew offered the cigarette to her.

"Thanks."

She took it, raised it to the red curve of her mouth and breathed deep. Andrew watched her, noting the color of her lips and the twisting of the smoke as she exhaled. Her eyes reminded him of the sea in autumn.

"I don't blame you for walkin' out, not in the slightest." She said, tilting her head towards him. "It's disgustin', to hear the bastard prattle on about duty an' God's work. Get the feelin' he wants to go over himself- pity that he can't, really, on account of his advanced years." She snorted, taking another drag.

"It's more than that." Andrew muttered, and he could feel the anger clotting thickly in his throat. "He prays for God to grant our side victory. It's all well and good for the folks at home to wave paper flags and cheer for their Tommies, but to pray to God for a victory, as though it's something you just have to _ask_ for? Not a one of them understands what a victory means over there, or how…how _empty _it is."

Swallowing hard Andrew took the cigarette from Sarah's fingers and raised it to his lips, his skin going clammy even in the warmth of midmorning.

"You win by slicing a man open, or shooting him or blowing him up. You fight, and you lose half a regiment to gain a trench and a few feet more of mud. There are thousands, if not millions of mothers all over England and the Continent who will never see their sons again, all for the sake of a victory. Funny how the vicars and generals never mention any of _that_."

"I suppose they try to pretty it up. They say there's no better honor than to die for your country." Sarah replied, and the bitterness in her tone told him she'd heard that speech before.

"There's no such thing as _honor _or _glory. _It's a little fairy tale they hand you alongside the gun, so you maybe don't blow your own brains out two weeks in." Andrew spat.

She had nothing to say to that; she could hardly call him a liar, and they both knew it. Andrew swallowed, twisted the remains of the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and watched as the tobacco crumbled. For a second he wanted to turn to her and tell her that he was rarely ever like this, back in his old life. He'd been a much better man in those days.

Instead, he said,

"We'd best head back. Her Ladyship'll need tending, an I've got packing to do."

She gave him a sharp look and a sharper frown, her eyes apprehensive.

"And just where d'you think you'll be goin'?"

"A bedlam house, likely." Andrew murmured. "That's where my sort belong, yes?"

"That's _enough_."

Miss O'Brien rose to her feet in one fluid movement and stared down at him in the way a hawk might stare down at a rabbit.

"You'll not get anywhere by sayin' things like that, Mr. Lang. You've done nothing worth dismissal, an' if you keep on blatherin' like this, I'll-."

Andrew stood and towered over Miss O'Brien- over _Sarah_- and seeing her tilt her head back to glower at him made him pause and blink. He forgot, sometimes, that she was actually quite a small woman; the way she carried herself made him believe she was at least his height.

"It's kind of you to think like that, it is. But I think you and I both know that I'll not be allowed to stay now. It was bad enough with the dinner and my episode in front of the general- Carson won't abide another humiliation." He said quietly, with a sad half-smile to soften the words. Her expression grew stony

"You leave that to _me, _Mr. Lang, an' spare yourself the packin'."

With that, she dusted the grass and ash from her skirts and drew herself up like a queen.

"Come on, then." She snapped, tilting her head towards the road.

And somehow, Andrew Lang managed a smile and followed after her.


End file.
